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after the death of an adored wife. He comes down the side of precipices by a mysterious kind of pole?jumping--half a dozen fathoms at a drop with landing?places a yard wide--like a chamois or a rollicking Rocky Mountain ram. Every now and then he finds a skeleton, with a legend of instructive tenor, in a hermitage which he annexes: and almost infallibly, at the worst point of the wilderness, there is an elegant country seat with an obliging old father and a lively heiress ready to take the place of the last removed charmer. [10] It has been observed, and is worth observing, that the eighteenth?century hero, even in his worst circumstances, can seldom exist without a "follower." Mad, however, as this sketch may sound, and certainly not quite sane as Amory may have been, there is a very great deal of method in his, and some in its, madness. The flashes of shrewdness and the blocks of pretty solid learning (Rabelaisian again) do not perhaps so much concern us: but the book, ultra?eccentric as it is, does count for something in the history of the English novel. Its descriptions, rendered
through a magnifying glass as they are, have considerable power; and are quite unlike anything in prose fiction, and most things in prose literature, before it. In Buncle himself there is a sort of extra?natural, "four?dimension" nature and proportion which assert the novelist's power memorably:--if a John Buncle could exist, he would very probably be like Amory's John Buncle. Above all, the book (let it be remembered that it came before Tristram Shandy) is almost the beginning of the Eccentric Novel--not of the satiric?marvellous type which Cyrano and Swift had revived from Lucian, but of a new, a modern, and a very English variety. Buncle is sometimes extraordinarily like Borrow (on whom he probably had influence), and it would not be hard to arrange a very considerable spiritual succession for him, by no means deserving the uncomplimentary terms in which he dismisses his progeny in the flesh. If there is an almost preposterous cheerfulness about Buncle, the necessary alternative can be amply supplied by the next book to which we come. The curious way in which Johnson almost invariably
managed to hit the critical nail on the head is well illustrated by his remark to Frances Sheridan, author of the Memoirs of Miss Sydney Bid[d]ulph (xxxx), that he "did not know whether she had a right, on moral principles, to make her readers suffer so much." Substitute "aesthetic" for "moral" and "heroine" for "readers," and the remark retains its truth on another scheme of criticism, which Johnson was not ostensibly employing, and which he might have violently denounced. The book, though with its subsequent prolongation too long, is a powerful one: and though actually dedicated to Richardson and no doubt consciously owing much to his influence, practically clears off the debt by its own earnings. But Miss Bidulph (she started with only one d, but acquired another), whose journal to her beloved Cecilia supplies the matter and method of the novel, is too persistently unlucky and ill?treated, without the smallest fault of her own, for anything but really, not fictitiously, real life. Her misfortunes spring from obeying her mother (but there was neither moral nor satire in this then),
and husbands, lovers, rivals, relations, connections--everybody--conspire to afflict her. Poetical justice has been much abused in both senses of that verb: Sydney Biddulph shows cause for it in the very act of neglect. But the eighteenth century, on the whole, loathed melancholy. The Spiritual Quixote (xxxx) of the The English Novel 54 Reverend Richard Graves (xxxx?xxxx) has probably been a little injured by the ingenuous proclamation of indebtedness in the title. It is, however, an extremely clever and amusing book: and one of the best of the many imitations of its original, which, indeed, it follows only on broad and practically independent lines. During his long life (for more than half a century of which he was rector of Claverton near Bath) Graves knew many interesting persons, from Shenstone and Whitefield (with both of whom he was at Pembroke College, Oxford, though he afterwards became a fellow of All Souls) to Malthus, who was a pupil of his; and he had some interesting private experiences. He wove a good deal that was personal into his novel, which, as may easily be guessed,